Wanderer: The Moondark Saga, Books 4-6 (The Moondark Saga Boxed Sets Book 2)

by Don McQuinn

  Approval murmured as men in various costumes lifted mugs in unison. Katallon continued. “The Black Lightning stole this special weapon from you?”

  “When we were betrayed, I was away from Trader Island. The weapon was in her care. If she died, the secret of the lightning weapons died with her.” Never before had Conway allowed himself to think of Tate as dead. Nor could he now. Not really. It was a consideration. Not even a possibility. The same was true of all of them. Even Lanta. Her. The guilty one.

  Moonpriest said, “Whether the Black Lightning lives is unimportant. We have the White Thunder. Soon, all weapons everywhere will belong to Windband, and the glory of Moondance.”

  Katallon rose. His wine mug, refilled, sloshed when he raised it over his head. Katallon laughed hugely at the splash, threw the mug the length of the table, snatched up the wine jar itself. Hoisting that, he spoke. “Tomorrow we send patrols to sweep the sundown side of the Enemy Mountains clear of Kossiars.”

  Conway embraced the surge of primitive excitement. He exulted in the rankness thrown off by forty savages sweating with bloodlust.

  His breath jammed in his chest. His heart pounded.

  Suddenly he pitched forward, almost went facedown on the table. Jerking erect, he was shocked to see he’d been pressing his spoon against the table so hard it was snapped off at the bowl.

  Katallon understood. He roared approving laughter, then went on. “When the Kossiar coyotes are driven clear of the mountains, when we’ve looted their homes and taken their women and children, we move against Church Home. They say her fortress is invincible. Women’s talk. We’ll grind the walls and the highnosed bitches behind them into the dust. The treasures of all history will be yours.”

  The gathering erupted in war cries. The cloth wall behind Katallon drew open like a stage curtain. Slaves streamed out, bearing wooden platters. Conway recognized the pork, beef, game. Whole chickens. A turkey. More slaves brought round loaves of bread and butter. Steamed vegetables were delivered in copper cauldrons. Salt came in deep bowls, pepper—in the form of ground, dried chilies—in smaller bowls. A last condiment came in jars with wooden, holed stoppers. Conway sniffed at one and twitched it away from his nose. Moonpriest was watching, laughing. “Peppers in vinegar,” he said. “Especially good on the tougher meat. Try it.”

  Conway shook his head. “I just want to eat the meat, not the fire that cooked it.”

  Fox heard the conversation. Draining his wine, he pulled the stopper from the vinegar and poured the fiery liquid in the empty mug. Whole peppers splashed merrily, the wet-shining crimson like tiny flames. Fox raised it in a silent toast, filled his mouth, swallowed. Chewing the remaining peppers, he winked at Conway.

  Conway said, “You must be made of iron.”

  Fox chuckled, slapped his chest. “Mountain babies suckle this stuff when their mothers can’t nurse.”

  Everyone laughed and hooted.

  Conway lost track of the number of mugs of wine he emptied, the number of times he speared another slab of meat. The flash of knives was constant, as each man sank his teeth in the meat and sawed off that mouthful with his knife. Bones littered the floor. Conway was surprised at how quickly the vegetables disappeared, and staggered by the amount of salt that went on them. He thought back to the taboos and cautions of his diet before he entered the creche, before he woke in this insane, savage world. A pounding sadness swamped him with despair. Clutching the table, he gulped more wine.

  The trouble passed.

  The sharp eye of Moonpriest registered the moment. The white-clad figure came closer, hovered, cloudlike. “Is something wrong, Matt?”

  Conway shook his head, wondered at its unsteadiness. It took a moment for him to realize it was his entire body. His eyes wouldn’t focus. Awareness that he was within a few swallows of being falling-down drunk almost shocked him back to sobriety.

  He cursed himself, still keeping a fixed smile in place. Fox watched, eyes as bright and hot as his namesake’s. Katallon was bull-like, massive, contemplative. A trickle of wine, like blood, ran down the left side of his chin.

  Fox said, “He drinks too much. Not a man to lead my warriors.”

  “Windband warriors,” Katallon said. Even drunk, Conway caught the poisonous glare Katallon sent Fox. Looking at Conway, Fox failed to see it.

  Moonpriest said, “It’s my wish he lead.”

  Conway struggled upright. Both hands flat on the table, he leaned into the hostility and scorn. “Make you a bet. Me, the dogs, Stormracer. Even wi’out the lightning, kill any three warr’ors you pick.”

  The words burbled off his thickened tongue. Conway grinned, too clever for them. He saw. Meanness sticking out of Fox and Katallon like spikes on cactus. They were baiting him. Why? Jones—whoops, watch that—Moonpriest looked nervous as a declawed cat. Conway said, “Not now. Drunk. Tomorrow afternoon. Gonna hurt in mornin’.” He remembered to keep grinning foolishly.

  Suddenly he was afraid. He admitted to himself his judgment was adrift in an alcoholic fog. He was sure of one thing only. He had to get away from this situation. Rising unsteadily, he said, “Too much to drink. Foolish. Go now.”

  Katallon glared. “The evening’s just started. You offend.”

  Conway gestured helpless apology. “Leave, offend. Stay, talk too much, offend more.”

  Fox said, “The Otraz one says you killed Nar and Lolal.”

  Once again, shock cleared Conway’s brain for a moment. The hostility of Katallon and Fox was explained. No one had ever mentioned Otraz before. Now Conway knew why. He also knew why Katallon and Fox were pleased to have him drunk. Conway said, “Otraz lies. I saw.”

  Moonpriest smirked. “I will test Conway. Loyalty is such an absolute necessity, and such an uncertain thing. It’s our new friend’s word against Otraz’s.”

  Katallon nodded. “Otraz is a good man.”

  Forcing himself erect, Conway said, “No. Lolal was a good man. Otraz stabbed him. And Nar. I take any Moonpriest test. Glad to.”

  Fox said, “That’s fair, Katallon,” and got another furious look for his effort. This time Fox saw it. He met it with an even stare. It was Fox who turned away, but even in his fuddled state, Conway was sure Fox’s deference was a function of necessity. He had the feeling that when Fox decided to confront Katallon, there’d be no hesitation.

  Sluggishly, Conway’s mind plodded back to his own situation. If Moonpriest was in charge of the test, all was well.

  Snapping his fingers, Katallon ordered a pair of slaves to help the wobbling Conway to his room.

  Once in his own quarters, Conway put the wipe beside his bed and waved off the slaves. Settling heavily in his chair, he looked at himself in the mirror. “Fool,” he muttered.

  “At least you recognize the fact.” The voice was dry, penetrating.

  Conway jerked around in the chair, searching. This time Altanar was in plain view, smiling. “I thought better of you. Still, you escaped without insulting anyone.”

  “Drunk. Le’ my guard down. Not worthy. Failed her.” Conway hung his head. Tears of remorse burned his eyes.

  “Her?” Quickened interest raised Altanar’s tone.

  From maudlin sadness, Conway leapt directly to angry defensiveness. “Not your business. Get out.”

  “Very well. I only wanted to help.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” Conway put his hands to his temples. “What want? My friend.”

  Dubiously, Altanar said, “Nothing. Not now. Perhaps not ever.”

  When Conway looked again, he wasn’t sure Altanar had ever been there.

  Still, when Conway collapsed on his bed, he only pretended to sleep. After faking a few snores, he rolled over, listening. Rising to a sitting position, he managed to stand. Fighting for balance at each step, he walked into the hall, where he practically fell forward from one support post to the next. Each post had a fat candle in a holder, and his impact sent mysterious, weird shadows up and down the passageway. He staggered outside with a great
sigh of accomplishment.

  Karda and Mikka crashed at the end of their restraining chains as if sheer delight could snap the links. Conway sat down clumsily to free the threaded bolts securing the collars. It seemed to take forever. The impatient dogs sandwiched him between them. Finishing at last, he led them into the tent.

  Just outside his room, the dogs warned him of another human presence. Softly, Conway said, “Altanar?”

  A strange voice said, “No. Not Altanar,” and metal scraped against metal. Instantly, Conway ordered the dogs forward. The voice died out, hushed, “Don’t let them bite! Please.”

  “Step out here where I can see you. Who are you?” Conway held a post, straining to overcome the alcohol in his system.

  A slave stepped forward, his status clear by the one-piece smock covering his body and the small-linked chain around his neck. He carried a tray with a pair of metal objects on it. As he moved they slid, explaining the noise Conway mistook for a sword coming from its scabbard. The man was terribly scarred, a wound that ran from next to his right eye diagonally across his face. It sliced his nose, so it had healed with a twist. The welt drew the skin taut above the man’s lip, leaving him with a permanent snarl.

  The slave said, “You’ll need this in the morning. There’s tea in the pot. This metal thing covers a metal plate. There’s bread and honey under it. You want me to leave it in the room?”

  Conway nodded. The man darted inside. Conway followed, made his way to the bed and sat down wearily. From the door, the slave said, “I’m called Man Burning, of the Black Bear People. That’s north of Buffalo Eater country. Windband raided a Buffalo Eater camp while I was there. Bad luck.” He stepped closer, warily watching the dogs. When Conway looked up, Man Burning peered deep into his eyes. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “No. Don’t know Black Bear country. Never been.” The puckered scar was only inches away. Conway’s blurring vision made it seem to move.

  Man Burning went to the door. “I helped you when you left the dining room. Best you remember me. Man Burning. I belong to Katallon. He’d give me to you, if you ask. I can be helpful.”

  “Ever’body wants help poor Matt.” Conway surrendered, fell back onto the bed.

  Man Burning stepped forward, cocked his head to the side with a hand beside his ear. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  Conway was already unconscious. Under the watchful approval of the dogs, the slave backed out. He was smiling.

  Chapter 42

  Morning was devastation. Conway’s head throbbed, each expansion an explosion, each collapse a landslide. His stomach preferred up and-down antics, leaping vertically to claw the back of his throat, only to plunge into a sodden mass behind his navel. His tongue felt like a composted corncob; it tasted worse.

  The water left by Man Burning beckoned. Conway poured the mug full. The stream’s purity, the look of diamond cold relief, had his mouth working in unconscious anticipation. Closing on the mug with both hands, he raised it to his lips.

  He drank greedily, refilled the mug, drained it again.

  Karda nudged his elbow like a battering ram. Conway put an arm around the rough coated neck, stretched with the other hand to twist Mikka’s ears. She groaned happily. When Conway rose, he noticed her attention to the mug. He winced. “You’re thirsty. I’ll get you water.”

  Pulling on trousers he didn’t remember taking off, Conway stepped out into the hallway. Man Burning was just coming around the corner. He smiled at Conway’s appearance, but said nothing.

  Conway said, “Where can I get a large basin or bowl of some kind? And water for my dogs.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Do you need anything?”

  Conway shook his head, stepped back inside his room, and went to the wooden chest. He lifted the metal cover resting on its tray. Rich, yeasty bread fumes wafted up, sent his stomach into acrobatic expressions of rejection. Conway turned away, gulped. Hunger drove him back. This time it was the honey that tried to finish him. Whatever flower the bees visited, it had punch. “I’m starving,” he said, not caring that he was talking to himself or that he sounded like Dodoy on a bad day.

  A bite of bread and honey went down hard, but it stayed. The next one was easier. Conway threw some bread chunks to the dogs. By the time Man Burning returned, the food was gone.

  Conway greeted the man with a sheepish smile. “I think I’m going to live.”

  Man Burning’s expression went flat. Avoiding meeting Conway’s eyes, the slave chided, “You remember nothing of last night? The camp talks of nothing but the trial.” He put the water down. The dogs looked at it anxiously, then turned to Conway. At his signal, they drank noisily.

  Conway said, “There was something said about a trial. Something about Otraz.”

  “And you. Most say you killed Lolal and Nar.”

  “I told them Otraz did it. Exactly what’s this trial like?”

  “The people would prefer you fight Otraz. Katallon and Fox say you’ll be tested by Moonpriest.”

  Conway put on a judicious look. “Moonpriest has no favorites.”

  The slave made no effort to hide his surprise. “I’d fight ten like Otraz before I’d be tested by Moonpriest. Many suspect Otraz. They say Moonpriest will favor you because you both control lightning.”

  The dogs rose in unison, facing the door, alert. A moment later a voice from outside called, “Conway. Matt Conway. Are you there?”

  Fox’s voice was unmistakable. Conway ordered the dogs to a far corner, then admitted the Mountain chief. On seeing Man Burning, Fox stopped instantly. Conway turned to see the slave on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer. Fox looked up at Conway. The difference in height was unremarkable, perhaps three inches, but it clearly irritated Fox, who said, “Come outside with me. There are ears in all these tents. And stink.” He looked down at the unmoving Man Burning.

  Gesturing at the wooden chest, Conway said, “I haven’t washed up.”

  “Not necessary. Moonpriest ordered baths built. There’s a special one. You’ll be using it. I’ll show you where it is. In fact, I’ll join you. I haven’t bathed today.” He paused, then proudly said, “I do it because Moonpriest says it’s good. All Mountain People wash clothes now. Wash hands, faces. Bathe almost every day. Not so much sickness.”

  Conway remembered Sylah’s lament that preaching cleanliness to the Mountain People was like preaching softness to rocks.

  Conway turned to pick up his wipe. When he faced the door again, Fox was standing over Man Burning. The slave’s eyes fixed on Fox’s moccasins. Fox said, “Have you heard anything that was spoken?”

  “No.”

  “Remember that. The name of Matt Conway and my name must never come from your foul mouth. If you ever speak of us I’ll reopen that ugly scar and peel your face. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Bending to the man, Fox whispered in his ear, obscenely sibilant. “So leave, slave. Should I spur you with a sword?” Man Burning broke forward onto all fours, rising to his feet as he drove out the door. His bare feet thudded away on the carpeted hall floor.

  “That wasn’t necessary.” Conway stroked the trigger guard of the wipe.

  Fox strode out the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “Moonpriest told me how you and the others feel about slaves. If you had to deal with them, you’d know better. Keep them in fear, or they’ll turn on you.”

  More resigned than angry, Conway said, “That’s how the Kossiars felt. The ones who’re still alive probably still do.”

  With the dogs padding along behind, the men strolled into the main camp. A dazzling early morning sun angled light through the tents, silvering the rising smoke of cooking fires, charging the colors of banners and shields festooning the tents. Chickens clucked and crowed unendingly. Horses whickered and whinnied. At the edges of the camp, jingling bells tracked the departure of herds of goats, sheep, horses, cattle, and long-necked, vaguely concerned llamas. Small boys in charge shouted back and forth. Craftsmen were
setting up shop: leatherworkers, woodworkers, a cooper, two barbers, a potter, a smith. One block of tents belonged to an extended family of feltmakers, rope spinners, heavy cloth weavers, and tent-construction experts. Fox spoke darkly of how the group almost completely controlled tent manufacture within Windband.

  Fox proudly pointed out shops where dried and pickled products beckoned. Later in the season, Fox assured Conway, the shelves would bow under the weight of fresh fruit and vegetables.

  Stopping at the north end of Katallon’s camp, Fox indicated a dove-gray tent on the bank of a stream. It was shaded within a grove of thick-trunked pines. “The bath tent. Most of the men you saw at Katallon’s feast are allowed to use it. There are other tents for other people. Each camp has a similar arrangement.”

  “I understand the Dog People have something Like that.”

  Eyes straight ahead, Fox said, “You served the Gan Moondark one. I’m sworn to kill him and his whole family. If you’re his friend still, you’re my enemy.”

  The man was deadly serious, but the entire situation was so bizarre Conway had to laugh. To his surprise, Fox joined him. Conway said, “Did you bring me out here to challenge me?”

  Fox continued to laugh. He shook his head. “We have other things to concern us. I want you to ride with my men.”

  “You want the lightning weapon.”

  “We may grow to understand each other. I’m Moonpriest’s right arm. I protect him. Against everyone. I expect you to help me.”

  Without further conversation, Fox led off for the tent. Conway kept up, with effort. Not that Fox was trying to be impressive. He simply moved, swiftly. Conway noted that without conscious thought, the Mountain warrior avoided things that would make noise underfoot. Conway had watched a leopard on a hunt. The cat moved the same way, feet placing themselves as if possessed of their own vision.

  Walking through the pines around the bath tent, Conway’s knees suddenly turned soft, uncontrollable. He reached out to steady himself, frightened. Not once while he was fleeing the Kossiars had his strange sickness troubled him. Now, there was no hope of disguising or denying it. Windband would kill him for bringing sickness.